


I Re]me[mber

by TheHiddenPassenger



Series: Leviathan [2]
Category: Deadmau5 (Musician), I Remember - Deadmau5 ft. Kaskade (Song), My Chemical Romance, Professional Griefers (Music Video)
Genre: EDM - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 02:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4943791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHiddenPassenger/pseuds/TheHiddenPassenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a single dad is hard enough, but being the widower of a UFC superstar might just drive Frank Iero-Way over the edge. Frank's late husband, Gerard was killed almost a year ago in a freak accident as a result of a couple of huge mouse-shaped robots going haywire. Hilarious as that might sound, Frank's life is anything but. He's going to need a lot of help to get through this ugly, dark slump... or maybe just a sharp-tongued, wiry UFC superstar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Re]me[mber

**Author's Note:**

> I swear, this thing started as a joke. It was part "how much angst can I cram into a fic" (see also Professional )Grief(ers) and part "who the fuck can I ship that is totally fucking insane and then make everyone follow it"... Well okay maybe not everyone. I just see a lot of PG fics on here that ship Mau5 and G33, and that just doesn't go deep enough for me... not that THAT wouldn't be fanFUCKINGtastic, but bear with me. 
> 
> Another note: First person present tense is a hella delicate style and I've put a lot of effort into maintaining the illusion of being inside this fictional Frank's head, so please bear with the choppiness. I have attempted to simulate a grieving widower's thought processes which--like any other human being--tend to jump place to place. 
> 
> Mature rating is literally for Joel's mouth.

 

“So don’t give it up,” I lean further over the table of an open-air café where Joel and I have begun meeting for coffee on a regular basis. “I mean, if it’s what you love…just, y’know…do it.”

It’s hard for me to be giving advice like this to a guy like him but in the year and then some since Gerard…since I’ve been widowed, he’s been a fucking godsend. With Bandit starting kindergarten, I’ve had to juggle a hell of a schedule between her and the twins. The school has been mercifully helpful, scheduling B for the morning class and putting my eldest on a bus to get off at Sprouts, Cherry and Lily’s preschool.

No matter how things shake out, I’m always going to be late to pick them up on certain days, however. In addition, Grace can only babysit Miles so long; the poor kid’s got homework, after all. Mikey actually started renting a place in town a month or so ago to help out, which is great, but it’s not permanent. I’ve offered to let him stay with us but he’s not exactly a toddler type.

That’s where Joel comes in. Seeing the girls roll up the driveway in that ridiculously painted Ferrari of his is simultaneously horrifying to my inner “mom senses” and hilarious to my juvenile delinquent side. At times, I'm not sure which one is stronger, but if I think about it too much, I'm sure I'll reach the inevitable conclusion.

“It just seems kinda fucked up, you feel me?” His response is grunted over a large vase of coffee. I’m concerned it will actually kill him if he finishes. “I mean, I created it…then I just fucking vanish—”

“Life goes on, man,” my philosophy extends about as far as The Dude, and then fizzles to complete oblivion. I’m really only good for quoting shitty movie lines and fixing cars—and the occasional giant combat robot. God, what am I doing with my life? I’m not a shrink. I can only respond to what’s happening around me, not what’s going on in someone else’s fucking head.

He raises a brow at me. “You serious?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, dude.”

Shrugging, I tug my fingers through stringy black hair that really needs a wash. Maybe I’ll just shave it instead. The caffeine is reaching my extremities and awakening me, causing me to have such thoughts about my hair and face, which also requires a shave. It’s eight in the morning, and I’m worried about my hair. But, it beats the alternative, which is introspection—y’know, stepping back to evaluate what my life has become. I can’t do that, not right now. I have to focus, take each day as it comes.

To that end, I think about the next few hours and the activities I’ve planned. It’s Sunday, and is therefore also my day off. I’ve chosen to spend at least part of it with Joel Zimmerman at this café, leaving my brother-in-law at home with the kids. Mikey is kind, works from home, has a lot of time, and wants to help. I’m grateful to him for all that, but I’m also taking advantage of it—always up to my old tricks. God, I’m such a prick.

“Joel, I’m the wrong guy to ask,” I am watching him over the rim of my much smaller mug, testing his response. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that I’m selfish as hell. If I were you, I’d do it because I love doing it, forget what everyone else says you should or shouldn’t do. You didn’t get to driving a cyan Ferrari by giving too many fucks, did you?”

Though everyone else in the world _does_ seem to give a fuck or two about Deadmau5 and what he does and doesn’t do. Every magazine at all involved with the UFC arena or affiliated therewith has been abuzz since the accident. The paparazzi has died down somewhat but every once in a while, I get an email or a phone call asking for an interview. I suspect being seen in public with the sport’s creator might have something to do with those.

“The league wants to have a memorial,” his slate gray eyes are on the steaming liquid in his colossal cup, anywhere but my face. “There’s a committee, y’know…” He’s kind of mumbling, at this point. “I mean, yeah, I’m the creator but obviously there’s gotta be someone to enforce the rules an’ shit.”

I nod, flipping my hand in a circular motion to signal that I understand, and that he can move on. He knows I know all this stuff; I’ve been involved since…for a while, so I’m familiar with the league’s Safety and Ethics committee.

“So if the committee wants a memorial for ‘im, let ‘em have it,” I grunt. It’s only been a year and some change; I’m not over it. I’m not ready to talk about it, either. And I’m certainly not ready to memorialize it. For fuck’s sake, my husband is dead. He was crushed under a thousand tons of steel and bad decisions. Our children watched his casket lowered into the earth; they never got to say goodbye. Miles probably won’t remember his face, and the girls will never forget it. I don’t know what’s worse.

“They want you to speak,” Joel’s voice is barely above a whisper, now. He’s embarrassed to even be asking me this; he doesn’t _want_ to ask me this.

“So you’re their liaison?” It seems like a pretty low blow to me. These people have obviously taken note of his sudden involvement in my life and are seeking to use it. What’s it all for, anyway? Ratings? Having the widower of the man who died dedicating a memorial to him brings in a lot of spectators and, I suspect, revenue.

Instead of responding verbally, he just nods and starts patting himself down for a cigarette. I’ve noticed he smokes more when he’s nervous or upset. As he pulls one out, I can see the shake of otherwise practiced, precise hands. He’s keeping that infernal bill of a perpetual baseball cap between my eyes and his.

“I won’t do it, and it’s fucking mean as hell to ask,” I inform him hotly. My temper is about to boil over at the indignity of the whole thing. “And what the fuck do they want to memorialize Gerard for, anyway?!”

It’s the first time I’ve spoken his name since he was killed. It tastes bitter. There is no spice, no life as there once was, only the hollow placeholder for a man I will never see again. They say it gets easier as you go along, but not for me. Each day that goes by is another day separating me from a time when I had him, and when he had me. And you know what? That’s the part that burns worst, intensifying every day.

“I told ‘em it was fucking dumb,” he responds by way of apology. “But they’re gunna do it. Something about public outcry…”

“What about my _family_ , huh?” My cheeks are aflame, jaw tight and I am disturbingly close to tears. “Gerard was _mine_ —he…he’s not some kind of martyr! He’s just fucking dead!”

He clearly has the same sort of trouble processing strong emotion I do, though I’ve seen his blog before and the guy has no problem spewing it. The fact that he’s still sitting here with me speaks volumes for him and his dedication to…what? The thought has occurred to me several times that he might just be hanging around to assuage his own guilt.

“I’m sorry…” It’s just two words, and means almost nothing in the grand scheme of things, but there they are, open and raw like a newly-scraped wound. Joel doesn’t utter them often, I can see how they sour on his lips, but he forces them out because they need to be conveyed.

I raise a hand, palm toward him. It is my left. The wedding band is still there. The hand lays itself back down on the table, suddenly leaden. Again, my gaze is downcast. The space between the table and my eyes is taking all of my focus as I stare through my pain and fight it down. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into it; he’s done nothing but help.

“No, I...” my tone evens out because it has to. If I speak with any kind of inflection, I will lose my shit and start to sob. “I just…can’t it wait? I’m not ready.”

“They’re gunna contact you soon,” Joel warns, lifting the massive mug to his lips. I guess I’m glad he’s already mentioned it so I can hold together when I have to speak to the committee member unlucky enough to have drawn the short straw.

“Thanks for the heads-up…”

The sky overhead is blue and getting bluer. The clouds are fluffy and white and the leaves are turning every perfect shade of red, orange and yellow that my children love so much. They'll want to rake those things into piles and bury themselves, soon enough.

“Yeah,” he grunts, “d'ya wanna get goin’ or whatever?”

He jerks his thumb over one shoulder to the car he’s affectionately dubbed “Purrari” in which we arrived an hour or so prior. The look on his face suggests he feels like a total tool, and that the least he can do is bring me home.

I really can’t leave poor “Uncle Mikey” alone with four rambunctious children for longer than an hour or two anyway. He’s a wonderful guy, a saint, in fact, but he doesn’t deal well with children. He never has, as long as I’ve known him. To that end, I nod and stand, shoving my chair in. Joel tugs his leather jacket over his arms and turns his remote start toward the vehicle, which—true to its name—purrs to life.

I haven’t worn a jacket. The brisk, fall air feels good on my obscenely tatted arms. Tattoos still make people uncomfortable, as do excessive piercings, and two men married with four kids. I live for making people uncomfortable. I sense Joel is on board with this as he toys with his labret and watches me.

Sometimes, I catch him doing that, just watching me. There’s nothing weird about it; it’s not predatory, or anything. He’s just watching. Instead of addressing the man's thousand-yard stare, which would likely make us both feel awkward, I stretch, finish off my coffee—which I hadn’t noticed was actually being drained ‘til now—and set the Styrofoam mug down.

Joel hasn’t actually lit the cigarette for which he’d been searching earlier. It’s still hanging, useless, from the side of his mouth. It makes _me_ want one. Gerard had quit smoking when B was born; I quit when he died. Taking a deep breath, my mind forces my heart to keep beating, my legs to move in a generally toward-the-Purrari direction, and my eyes to stay dry and cast upon the blue above us.

He knows not to ask if I’m okay. Speaking, at this point, would be foolish. We’ve made a tentative truce and he’s celebrating by finally lighting that cigarette. I sense that several more of these will be smoked on the short drive back to my home. Digging my cell out of one back pocket, my thumb slides along the screen as I scan for missed calls or messages. Nada. I guess Mikey and the kids have also reached something of a truce.

“Gotta get back before Mikey tries cooking breakfast with the munchkins hanging on his ankles,” I am the first to break the silence.

Joel nods, releasing held-in smoke out one side of his mouth as we approach his garish vehicle. He unlocks her with the press of a button and I slide my ass into the passenger’s seat. The purr of the vehicle always amuses me. My fixed-up Trans Am growls like a creature in rut. I’ve always loved that car. Guess I should probably invest in a soccer mom van, however. Nothing looks more irresponsible than a chubby, beardy, tatted-up asshole driving around town with four children—in car seats, mind you—in an old, late 80’s Firebird Trans Am.

“I’m a shitty parent,” I grunt aloud. Joel looks over at me, one brow raised, the driver’s side window of the Purrari rolling down at his behest. He pulls the cig out of his mouth and taps it outside the vehicle.

“That right?” He responds unnecessarily, his tone at its usual level of sarcastic sharpness. When I refuse to retort or look at him, he shifts the Purrari into gear and we take off down the street. Home is five minutes away, even when he takes the scenic route. Five minutes seems long in utter quietude. To that end, we speak not a word until my driveway is in sight, and once again, it is my turn to kill the silence.

“Would you mind hanging out a bit longer?” I don’t know if he has other plans today. His franchise still makes a shitload of money, so it’s not like the guy has a nine to five job. That being said, I’m already taking advantage of my brother-in-law’s kindness; there’s no reason to keep torturing folks.

He slides the visually loud car in next to Mikey’s sleek, red Fusion and disengages the engine. The cigarette—and two more like it—have already disappeared out the window as we made our way back. Joel seems to be patting himself down for another one as he turns his gaze toward me. “Nah, man—got nothin’ else going on today.”

“Nothing?” I’ve got to make sure. There are times I wonder how far he’d go for me, and part of me wants to test that. I realize the urge is childish, I know that, but my penchant for pushing the envelope is part of my shitty personality. It's not going anywhere.

“Not a fuckin’ thing.”

He’s been given the opportunity for an out and has not taken it. That tells me he’s interested in staying around, for whatever reason. To further befuddle me, my mind has decided that it appreciates the fact that Joel wants to hang around and sends a signal to my heart to start beating a little faster. This is ridiculous. Fortunately, Bandit has learned the sound of the Purrari, so before I can thank him for the staying around bit and probably make a complete cock of myself, she’s pressed up against the window on my side, shouting.

“Papa! Papa! Uncle Mikey makin’ WAFFOS!” She fairly vibrates with excitement. She’s also left the front door wide open and my darling twins are spilling out.

“You’ve gotta move back, baby,” I warn, “so Papa can actually get _out_ of the car.”

I hear the sound of the driver’s side door opening, and then closing. By the time I look up, Joel is up the driveway, scooping Cherry and Lily off their feet and the pavement with ease. He’s skinny as a noodle but there’s some power in those arms. It never fails to bring a smile to my face.

“Papa! Papa!” Bandit has, by now, moved back and is continuing her chorus of shouting from several feet away. She knows the wide swing of the door by now. As I shove it open and pop one leg out, she’s around it and in my arms. A gleeful smile is plastered to her adorable little face which is accompanied by a dark gap in the white where she’s lost a lower incisor.

The tooth fairy, as it turns out, is loaded with old Kennedy fifty cent pieces and Bandit’s got the one she received on her jewelry box. I stand, picking up my little gap-toothed angel along the way and conclude that leg of the journey by shoving the door shut. The twins are giggling nonstop as the leather jacket-clad UFC creator carries them inside, one under each arm.

It’s remarkable to me that Miles hasn’t toddled his way out, but perhaps Mikey has found something to entertain the little sucker. He’s been mobile since he was almost a year old. Now he’s three and both legs work a little too well. With Bandit balanced on my hip, then, I make my own way inside to see what sort of damage—psychological and otherwise—my children have wrought upon my house.

And my brother-in-law.

“Hey Mikey!” I shout upon entrance.

“Frankie, hey—didn’t expect you guys back ‘til later…” He peeks around the dividing wall that separates kitchen from living room. I shrug and set B down to remove my shoes. Joel’s are already by the door on the mud mat.

“Didn’t wanna leave you alone with Legion,” I snort my response, toeing one shoe off, then the other. Bandit scuttles into the kitchen and clings to Mikey’s leg.

“I wanna help!” She’s in outside voice mode and Mikey reminds her of this. Clapping small hands over a tiny, but vocal mouth, she makes a muffled promise to be quiet. Evidently, all my children have awoken on the proverbial correct side of the bed. Thank heavens.

“Where’s Miles?” I ask, finally, remembering my original search query. Mikey gestures with his head toward the hallway where I can hear Cherry and Lily giggling their little heads off. I’m about to take off in that direction when Mikey catches me by the sleeve.

“Hey, can we talk, man?” His big, olivine eyes are so much like my Gee’s were, it’s almost agonizing to look at him. But he’s not Gerard, not at all. The previous question, asking permission to “talk” reminds me of this.

“Y-yeah…sure,” my response is hesitant because the phrase “can we talk” has never ended well for me. “What’s up?”

I am terrified of what might be “up” in Mikey’s mind. He’s a thoughtful guy, a bit quick-tempered but damn sensitive. It must be genetic. He sighs deeply and opens the waffle iron, extracting the next warm, golden bit of semi-sweet dough.

“I’m just concerned, is all…” The beginning of his speech isn’t starting out too well. My first instinct is to tell him to stop his preaching right there, ‘cause I really don’t care. But he’s been such a help to me in the past few months, I feel like I owe him at least an ear.

“Concerned,” maybe if I echo his main points, he’ll be fooled into thinking I’m actually paying attention. Perhaps I can pretend to be the preoccupied parent, like I’m more worried about my kids.

“Yeah—about…y’know,” he jerks his head in the direction of the twins’ room, where Joel must certainly be. “He’s been—”

“Helping me raise my children?” I offer, acidly. My mouth is set in a thin line, eyes trained on him, daring Mikey to say one more word. Shit, I am _not_ in the mood for this garbage. He’s expressed some form of dislike toward Joel since his arrival. It’s usually politely veiled but an idiot would be able to see that Mikey is uncomfortable with the presence of another man in my house with his nieces and nephew.

The fact remains, however, if I didn’t trust him, Joel wouldn’t be in my house at all, much less near my kids. I’m not an idiot and, as much as I’m sure I am the shittiest parent alive, I’m not a monster. I will not brush my kids aside for a pretty face—which, by the way, Joel’s is not.

“Look, I’m just—aren’t you moving a little fast?” Each word comes out slowly, gently, as if he’s talking to a child and I’m getting angrier and angrier. I wish I had a hunk of leather to stuff in my jaw and bite down on, because I might break my teeth with how tight they’re clenching.

“You think I’m _fucking_ him?” I hiss this last bit, aware that Bandit is still in the area and has the ears of a fox. “Is that it?”

Mikey holds up both hands and looks down at me apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean…I guess I just…look, dude, I know you’re lonely, but you don’t need someone else. I-I’m going to move into town soon, permanently. I can help with the kids, and Grace does a good job.”

“Joel Zimmerman is not the man who killed Gerard,” I know exactly what he’s thinking as I reply. His eyes scream it to me without his mouth saying a word beyond what’s already been uttered. “Gerard is the man who killed Gerard, okay? You know it, I know it—one day, the world will know it, but for now, they just wanna put up a statue, make speeches and sanctions and feel better about themselves.”

“…a statue?” Mikey looks like he was going to be angry with me for half a second, and then the last bit of my quietly snarled speech reaches his ears and he stops. “They want to _what_?”

I nod slowly, crossing my arms. “Don’t know the details, yet—but Joel was kind enough to tell me what _he's_ heard, you dig?”

I just really need Mikey to lay off the whole “Joel is invading your house” bullshit. The guy has, like, a penthouse apartment downtown. He lives alone, makes millions, drives a customized Ferarri—he doesn’t _need_ this house or this life or _anything_ that comes with it. I don’t know why it burns me so much that he also doesn’t need _me_.

There is a sudden burst of giggles from the back room, prompting me to shatter my own reverie and go see what’s up. Mikey pulls another waffle off the iron and unplugs it, following me. Maybe he’s not going to let this rest, but he certainly won’t say anything to me with Joel and all the kids around.

Walking through the hallway, I feel the soft carpet under my socks. It stays pretty clean back here because Grace is a fucking angel and vacuums the whole house whenever she’s babysitting. Bless that girl. There’s nothing stuck in the threads, no Legos or Barbie shoes, just soft, well-maintained rug.

I lay my hand on the door handle and give it a gentle shove. The door’s cracked, as I’ve always instructed the girls to do, so I can hear them playing. The sight that greets me nearly brings me down to that ever-so-lovely carpet. Whatever I’d been intending to say is caught halfway up my windpipe, choking me. I lean hard against the jamb.

Joel is sitting, cross-legged on the floor; his leather jacket has been abandoned for a soft, pink fleece blanket I assume is a cape. He has a tiara plopped on his head and a tutu around his thin waist. A teacup in one hand accompanies an out-turned pinky and the biggest, dorkiest smile I’ve ever seen on a grown man.

“Joel—” It’s the only word that leaps to my distressed brain. Mikey has joined me and is rolling his eyes. He can’t help smiling but is still peeved at Joel’s supposedly invasive presence.

“I’m the goddamn princess,” Gerard's voice responds overlaying Joel's, as if challenging me. My heart thuds loud in my ears, my knees forgo the option to stay solid and I feel myself sliding down the door jamb. Everything is tunneling before me, and there’s a pressure between my temples.

And I am sinking again, back into that sweet oblivion that had taken me on a hot Friday night almost a year and a half ago.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Glad you stuck with me. More to come. No definite timeline... thanks for your patience and sorry I'm not quicker.


End file.
